


Colette

by Sera_Clay



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 03:08:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4590729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Clay/pseuds/Sera_Clay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzington, M, hurt/comfort, S&M, OC, Red!whump. Please do not read if non-con offends or triggers you.</p>
<p>Not mine, and certainly not a canon plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colette

"No, Elizabeth, I have very strict instructions not to allow anyone past this door."

Standing in hush of the thickly carpeted condo hallway, Liz stares quizzically up at Dembe. She planted the bug on Red so cleverly, tired of constantly waiting alone in whatever impersonal hotel suite they were staying in for one night, or at the most two.

He's been marshaling his forces, and she's willing to be patient about that. Even though it's been more than a month. 

But Red looked tense and unhappy when he left her this morning. He barely ate any of his breakfast, and the shower in the bathroom off his bedroom ran for a very long time this morning.

Liz knows him well enough by now to know that he bathes when he's relaxed or happy. Or tipsy. 

Red is really quite adorable when he drinks, although Liz monitors her own intake to be sure she's sufficiently in control of herself not to let him know.

Liz raises her eyebrows at Dembe, intending to argue, but the door behind him opens just slightly before she gets a chance.

"Send her in." A female voice, with a French accent. 

Dembe holds up one hand toward Liz, palm out, in an unmistakable signal to wait.

"Mr. Reddington ..." he begins.

"He'll be so happy to see her," the woman cuts him off. "You do remember that this is my home, not his?"

Liz swallows hard. Who is this woman, to speak that way to Dembe? If she treats Dembe like that, how would she treat Red? Liz suddenly has a very uncomfortable feeling about this whole situation. 

The door swings open wide, revealing a petite woman with short black hair. She's wearing black slacks and a sleeveless black blouse with high spike heels. A second woman, dressed in a loosely cut black suit and armed with an automatic weapon, looms into sight behind her. Clearly a guard, she watches Dembe, not Liz.

"Elizabeth?" says Dembe, but Liz is already walking forward.

"Well?" she says, standing in the foyer of the condo beneath an elaborate chandelier composed of jagged shards of purple glass. "Where is he?"

The guard slings her weapon back over her shoulder and advances slowly.

"Let me take your coat," she tells Liz. Not a request. An order.

Liz slips out of her long wool coat, revealing her black tights and casual knit tunic. Her weapons are in her coat, but she's not worried about them. She's spent hours working on her rusty hand to hand combat skills, and neither of these women move like trained fighters.

"This way," the woman gestures, and so Liz follows her, the guard pausing to hang her coat in a small closet near the door before bringing up the rear. There are a variety of items in the closet, including a suit that looks very much like the one Red wore this morning.

"My name is Colette," she remarks, "And you are Raymond's Lizzie?"

"I don't belong to him," Liz responds dryly. "If that's what you're asking."

The woman stops before a closed door, then whirls on her high heels.

"But is he yours?" she asks, imbuing the words with a certain tone that makes Liz want to answer in the affirmative, if only to shock her. But she doesn't know what Red may have already told her.

Liz shrugs, as if the question is of no interest.

Colette smirks and opens the door, ushering her into another world.

***

The first thing Liz notices is the thick layer of soundproofing coating the walls and the low ceiling, as well as the door through which they enter.

There are no windows, and the overhead fixtures contain small, dim bulbs, so that for a moment she doesn't recognize the curious shapes scattered about the room.

Loose ropes and chains hang from the ceiling amid variously sized objects built from wood or plywood. It almost looks like a collection of scenery and props backstage at a small, crowded theater.

"Nicely equipped, no?" Colette rolls her eyes and leads Liz into the room, the guard closing the door and standing with her back to it, watching them. 

Liz realizes she's standing in a dungeon just moments before she spots Red.

She can only assume it's him because Colette is smiling so fiercely.

The man in front of them is kneeling, bent forward and bound at his wrists, knees and ankles to a padded bench with two levels, wearing nothing but a pair of thin black silk boxers that cling to his body. His head is concealed by a black leather hood, turned away from her and resting on the top step of the bench between his tightly secured hands, and his broad shoulders and back are covered with old scar tissue that appears to be the residue of fire or chemical burns.

"Like the look of your friend now?" Colette asks in an arch tone.

Liz gives a pitying shake of her head.

"Reddington has no friends," she informs the other woman. "I thought you knew him better than that?"

Liz strolls around the bench, only fully convinced that she's looking at Red when she examines his familiar hands, which clutch so tightly at the handles to which his wrists are buckled that his knuckles are white. He's recognized her voice already, she's sure of that.

Several implements sit ready for use on a nearby table, a paddle, a switch, and a few other items she doesn't recognize, that are probably designed to elicit pain. There are objects designed to be inserted as well, some of which make her shudder inwardly. Liz raises her eyebrows and shrugs again.

She needs Red to feed her cues, which he can't do from within that hood.

"You don't want to watch his face?" she asks in an idle tone, circling the bench again. trying to ignore the way Red's entire body goes rigid as she speaks, straining in a futile effort to rip himself free from his bonds.

He really is quite muscular, more so than he appears in his elegant suits.

Colette shrugs, then deliberately places her right hand on the curve of Red's ass, creasing the center seam of his boxers with her nails as he begins to quiver.

"We were just getting started," she remarks, her eyes watching Liz as she runs her hand lower to the space between his legs, exposed by the gap between the two steps of the bench. Colette seems to be waiting to see if Liz will object to the intimacies she's taking with Red's straining form.

But Liz has no right at all to tell Red who can touch him, or how.

"And he's bargaining for information from me, not the other way around." Colette gives Red a brief squeeze that elicits a stifled sound from beneath the hood, then returns to caressing the cleft of his ass through the boxers. "So I don't really care what he has to say, in return."

Liz blinks thoughtfully at Colette, her mind furiously re-calculating. If this is consensual, some bizarre trade that Red has willingly subjected himself to, she's made a horrible, possibly unforgivable mistake.

But there's something off in Colette's body language. And there's the presence of that armed guard.

"So why did you invite me in?" Liz asks, stepping close to the other side of Red and laying her smaller hand on his ass beside Colette's long fingers, then giving him a firm rub through his boxers. Trying to convey support. Standing this close, she can feel the heat pouring off his body, smell the strong scent of his sweat. And fear. Oh yes, Liz knows the scent of fear all too well.

But is it fear of what Colette will do to him, or that Liz is present to witness him in this abject state?

"A whim, perhaps." Colette tugs at the waistband of the boxers, then pulls them down almost to his knees, exposing Red fully. Liz can see that he's not aroused at all; from her vantage point, his genitals actually appear to be trying to retract themselves up into his body. "Watch this."

Colette turns to the tray of implements, lifts and dons a pair of rubber gloves.

His ass quivers, cheeks spread wide enough by the position of his knees that Liz can watch every millimeter of Colette's gloved index finger smearing lube on him, then probing him deeply as Red strains helplessly away from her, the muffled sounds increasing. Her other hand manipulates and tugs at him until he responds just slightly, then she binds him cruelly tight with a narrow length of cord, his sensitive flesh turning purple beneath her attentions.

Liz licks her lips, horrified but knowing the only safe response is appreciation.

"Nice, now let me see his face," she says, and the deep note of emotion in her voice must have been enough to convince Colette.

"Pull off his hood, then, but leave the gag. He swears like a sailor," she advises Liz, fingering several items on the tray as if trying to decide which one to insert into him first.

Liz walks to the front of the bench, swallows hard, and unzips, then removes the leather hood. 

***

This was already one of the more horrible and humiliating mornings of Raymond Reddington's life, even before the advent of Elizabeth Keen onto the scene.

First, he found that only the cooperation of Colette de Plessy would allow him, Dembe, and Liz to proceed on the next leg of their journey, and her price was that Red allow her to paddle him until he wept. Former lovers make the worst enemies, and Colette knows exactly how badly he hates being paddled.

But he agreed to endure it, and then she betrayed him. Whispered exultantly in his ear all the other things she would do to him as well, now that she had him strapped down and at her mercy, before gagging and hooding him.

She can't let him walk away. She won't.

And now Liz. How can Liz be here, and not Dembe?

Is Colette so naive that she thinks she will escape Dembe's wrath? His vengeance? Even if it means he won't be able to escape either?

Red focuses his breathing on his nose, trying to imagine some scenario that will allow Liz, at least, to leave this room, this city, safely.

He blinks away tears at the hood is removed, trying not to choke against the ball gag still stuffed in his mouth.

Liz slaps him without warning, hard. The pain in his face forces his eyes wide and his neck up, trying to look at her.

She's leaning down, frowning at him, and she flicks her eyes wider for just a second in warning before slapping him equally hard on the other side of his face.

Red tastes blood in his mouth and fear, a fear that rushes through his nerves and threatens to send him unconscious.

She's not even armed.

Ignoring the discomfort, then pain of whatever Colette is currently shoving deeper into his exposed and vulnerable body, Red rolls his eyes wildly at Liz.

'Get out,' he sends the thought to her as loudly as he can. 'Get out while you still can.'

"He especially wanted me to paddle him, you know," he hears Colette observe from somewhere behind him. "But perhaps you'd prefer to do it?"

Liz looks back at him without expression, the serene face she dons when gazing at horrific crime scene photographs.

Then she smiles, and it's an ugly smile he's never seen on her face before, and Red is briefly terrified before he realizes she's looking past him, down the length of his bound and soon to be broken body, toward Colette.

"Oh, yes," Liz responds. "Yes. Please let me do it."

Then she vanishes from his view.

***

The paddle lands lightly the first time, then harder.

Liz lets out a nervous laugh.

"You hit him first, then me," she says to Colette, then turns the paddle in front of her face for a moment, as if examining it.

"Or we can do this together?"

Colette smiles, and crosses the room to extract a second paddle from a cabinet against the wall.

"I wish I could see his face," Liz muses, stroking the angry red mark left by the paddle as Red shakes at her touch. "I don't suppose you have a mirror?"

"Greta."

Colette makes a gesture at the guard, and she slings the machine gun over her shoulder before lifting the tall standing mirror next to the St Andrews Cross and striding over to tilt it until Liz can see the reflection of Red's tear-streaked face.

Crimson with humiliation, drooling from the pressure of the gag, he nevertheless manages to wink at her as Liz licks her lips in exaggerated excitement.

"Together," says Colette, smiling across at Liz.

Their paddles land in unison, both women staring at the mirror as Red tries to maintain his composure as his tears continue to fall.

But he can't.

By the fifth blow he's trying to writhe away; by the tenth he's blubbering like a child, almost suffocating on the gag as his nose runs continuously.

"I'd love to hear him beg," Liz ventures, drawing in deep breaths as she stares down at the battered mess they're making of Red's pale skin. 

"I've heard enough out of him today," responds Colette, frowning down at her paddle, then turning it back and forth with a flick of her wrist.

Liz is not going to get a better chance. Not if she can't get the gag removed.

She looks down at her paddle, then flings it without looking again, with deadly aim, to strike the center of Greta's throat. The guard collapses in a heap, the mirror crashing down and showering her with slivers of glass.

Colette looks up, her eyes going wide, but Liz is already in motion, scooping up the machine gun and pointing it at Colette.

"Actually, he is mine," she announces, not looking down at Red, who is still sobbing quietly. "I thought this might be fun, but on second thought, no."

Colette lays her paddle down on Red's shaking back and raises her hands.

"We had a deal," she protests.

Liz glares at her.

"He doesn't have permission to damage himself." She bites out the words, still not looking at Red, although she can tell he's listening from the way he's choking down his sobs. "Give me the information he came for, and we're done here."

Colette is silent.

Liz glances down at Greta.

"Her throat is crushed, but you can probably still save her," she comments.

"Here."

Colette reaches beneath her blouse and pulls a wad of crushed paper from her bra.

"This is what he needs." She hands it to Liz, damp with sweat, still warm from her body.

Liz gives her a cold smile and tucks it away in her back pocket. 

"Undo the gag first," she instructs Colette.

As soon as Red's mouth is free, Liz motions to Colette to step back. She obeys, glancing down at Greta with concern.

"Do you accept the deal, Red?" she asks him. She knows how these types of agreements work. If he doesn't accept, she only has one option. She'll kill both women, then try to kill any other guards who may be concealed within the condo.

If he chooses that option, Liz fully expects to fail. She will need to save a bullet, an angle, for Red. It's no more or less than he's promised her, if the Cabal catch up to them.

He nods slightly. "Yes."

"Good."

Liz gestures at Colette with her weapon.

"Step over there, turn your back, and wait for us to leave."

She knows better than to try and restrain the other woman. That's not part of the deal. But she does need Red's clothing. Liz looks around, then remembers the closet.

As soon as Colette's back is turned, Liz unbuckles the straps holding Red to the bench, then helps him rise first to his knees, then, with her support, to his feet, shaking the whole time, a fine vibration that worries her more than the physical damage he's sustained.

Red's hands are trembling so badly that she has to remove the rope from him, trying to ignore the sounds he makes as the blood rushes back into his bruised tissues.

He doesn't look at her as they make their slow way out of the room, although he accepts her assistance getting dressed in the hall without resistance. He seems shrunken within his expensive suit.

"You need to wash your face," she tells him, surveying the results before dragging her own jacket off its hanger and shrugging into it.

Red shakes his head, still shivering almost continuously. Liz pulls a scarf from her pocket, licks at it, then dabs at his face. She won't let him go out in public like this. Dembe will of course know instantly that something is wrong, but the tear stains are too much.

He shakes his head again. She doesn't have time to go looking for water, or a bathroom. They need to get out of here.

"Red?"

Liz lays her hands gently on the back of his neck, pulls his face closer as his eyes meet hers, then he glances away as if ashamed.

"Red," she whispers, then she licks his face. Once, twice, three times, then longer, slower caresses of her tongue. Cleaning not just his salty cheeks, but the corners of his eyes, his still-running nose, the blood encrusting his lips.

"Oh," he breathes out, closing his eyes and leaning towards her at last. "Oh."

Pure animal, that sound. 

She finishes with the lightest of kisses at the corner of his mouth, where he's nibbling at the corner of his lower lip, then leads him out into the hall, to the protection and security of Dembe.

***

They leave the city by train within the hour, following the instructions Colette provided, names and code words that render the secure border briefly porous.

Liz waits until they're safely airborne before asking Red the question hovering on her lips.

"Did I make the wrong choice? Should I have just killed her?"

Red looks up from the folder of papers Dembe gave him as soon as he boarded, takes a sip of his scotch, and shrugs.

"We're here, which is what counts, Lizzie."

He's still not looking at her. Not full in the face.

It had to have been a horrible and frightening experience for him, but then Red's life is filled with narrow escapes, injury and torture and the deaths of so many people he's loved.

He showered on the train, ate alone in his private cabin while Liz lay sleepless on her own bunk, not hungry at all.

She tries again.

"Will you ever forgive me?"

Red stares down into his scotch, then drains the glass.

"You didn't do anything wrong," he says in a low tone. "I made a mistake, and you almost paid for it. And Dembe as well."

'We're all going to make mistakes,' she wants to tell him. 'All of us. I'm so afraid I've already destroyed what might have been, between us.'

But she knows he can't hear her. Not right now.

Liz looks over at Red, elegant as ever in his three piece suit and his carefully coordinated tie, with his fedora on the seat beside him, a signal to her to give him space. He's still sitting on a pillow, and he winces whenever he crosses his legs, or shifts his weight.

"I would have changed places with you in a heartbeat, Red," she tells him, and he glances back at her, finally. Liz spreads her hands open in surrender. She'd have let Colette beat every inch of her bruised and bloody, if it would have spared him. She's finally willing to let him see that, to admit what he means to her, has meant for so long.

His mouth moves, and she's afraid for a moment that she's pushed him too far. Then Red lifts his fedora onto his lap and pats the seat beside him.

"Stow this hat, and come sit with me, Lizzie," is all he says, but it's enough. The rest, if she has anything at all to say about it, the rest will come.


End file.
